


Fire in Our Veins

by StormEnchanter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: And Derek is both highkey afraid of him and slightly creeped out by that, BAMF Stiles, Claudia Stilinski Memories, Claudia Stilinski's Background, F/M, Fic starts off in media res, Hallucinations, M/M, Magical Claudia Stilinski, Magical Realism, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mentions of Unhealthy Relationships, Multi, Nightmares, Past Relationship(s), Polish Mythology, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, Slavic mythology, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles Has Nightmares, Stiles goes through some shit, Stiles is a little bit mysterious in this, Takes place after the events of season 5, Which basically means the middle of the story, Witch Claudia Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-03-20 08:19:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13713693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormEnchanter/pseuds/StormEnchanter
Summary: Slightly shaking, Stiles could hear only the sound of sharp breaths that he took in. Forcing his eyes to rake over the form of Derek’s lifeless body; there was a deep stab wound in his chest—right above his heart—the gash puncturing the familiar leather of the jacket he had worn frequently the first time Stiles and Scott had crossed his path.The glint of metal appeared in the corner of his eyes and his gaze shifted toward his hands. A blood covered athame was gripped tightly in his right hand, the blade and handle were slick with both flakes of dried blood and some that was fresh. His own palms were slick with blood and some deep part of his soul and brain recognized that it was Derek’s own.***It's been months since Stiles had to fend off Donovan who was hellbent on seeing him dead. Months plagued with nightmares, delusions and the growing concern of family and friends who are convinced that his symptoms are remnants of the Nogitsune or worse something that could land him in Eichen House forever. When nightmares become too vivid and hallucinations too real, Stiles and everyone around him are forced to confront the darkness that encroaches on their town along with the darkness in their hearts.





	1. Going Crazy

**Author's Note:**

> This is the new, better and improved version of my Teen Wolf fic. Really wanted to spend a lot of time focusing around the mysticism of Stiles' " maybe it's an actual illness or maybe it's not" portion of the fic as well as the horror aspect that I truly love writing about.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!!

There was a dampness — a rot that seemed to burn itself into Stiles’ nostrils.

A scent that contrasted with the sharp coppery tones of blood, the stench of burnt flesh and death. Everything felt slowed as Stiles took a sharp breath, the sound particularly loud in the abandoned space of the mall, or maybe it was just a trick of his mind. He blinked as he turned his head, his eyes opening to dust particles dancing in the air.

Chris Argent stood beside him, his stance taut as a determined anger blazed in his eyes. His finger curled tightly around the trigger of the gun in his hand. The muzzle pointed at Kate’s chest. “Stand down!” The words sounded like a distorted song to Stiles’ ears, like a moment when a track would skip words in a song, rewind itself and repeat the mistake over again.

Looking over his shoulder, Stiles could see Scott bleeding out on the dust and debris covered floor. Kira, kneeling beside her boyfriend, had strands of her hair plastered to her sweat covered face. Grime and Scott’s blood—at least Stiles thought that it was only Scott’s blood—smeared patches of her arms and rapidly spread across her already blood stained hands that were pressed to Scott’s left rib cage. Three long slashes from a clearly clawed hand raked down Scott’s side from the middle of his ribcage to his left hip. Blood kept gushing from his side, the wound refusing to heal itself. His face covered in sweat and grime, his face contorted in a pain that looked unbearable.

A few feet away, a guttural roar caused Stiles to fix his gaze upon the sound. Lips parted, exposing the extended canines of her mouth, Kate’s grip around Parrish’s throat tightened as she lifted the Hellhound into the air; fire crackled off of his flesh from the deep crags that littered his skin. Kate’s roar almost sounded victorious and from the way her snarl curled upward into a bone chilling grin, Stiles knew that the scales of this fight had been tipped in her favor.

Laughter ripped itself from Kate’s throat; the sound reminiscent of nails dragging down a chalkboard. “Chris,” disgust weaved itself into her words, “you don’t even have the  _ balls _ to pull that trigger or kill me.”

Amidst the tension, Stiles found his gaze being pulled away from Kate and toward someone else. Derek gave Stiles a small jerk of his head, the tiny movement all he could muster as his face contorted into a grimace of pain. A thick, metal rod had been impaled into his abdomen; pushed so far that the end that was currently embedded into him had pierced through the wall behind him. The other end of the rod had been bent by a tremendous force, the metal curling around Derek’s side, keeping him pinned against the wall. Blood coated his bottom lip and dribbled down the sides of his mouth, streaking his chin with the ruby colored liquid.

Whipping his head back around to glare at Kate, Stiles could feel his entire body heating up, the tips of his ears burning from the warmth; a warmth that spread throughout the rest of his body. It was a fire that sparked somewhere deep within his soul, growing and roaring into a flame that threatened to consume it and somewhere deep inside of Stiles, he was willing to let that fire twist his soul, scorch it and let the flames consume him until there was little left of him that could be described as human. There was something so benign, so little left of the old Stiles as his lips parted and Kate swiveled her gaze to focus upon him with her brows raised in amusement and her eyes twinkling with a childlike sense of bemused curiosity.

“He may not, but I sure as hell do.” Stiles growled out as blue smoke curled off the tip of his fingers, the concrete floor beneath his feet began to slightly shake beneath him. The feral grin that stretched across Kate’s face seemed to widen as her hold on Parrish’s throat slackened; the hellhound crumpled to the dirty concrete floor of the abandoned mall. His mouth flopping open and closed as he took in gulping gasps of air.

Her lips parting so that her fangs were bared at the world, she let out a deafening roar that competed with the rumble beneath Stiles’ feet. Sizeable cracks appeared in the cement beneath him, they snaked past him and raced toward where Kate stood. Glancing warily down at the cracks before her, a grin stretched across Stiles’ face as Kate’s own smirk fell.

As his magic burned throughout his body, surging through him like a fire nipping at the dry brush of a forest, the bark, the leaves only to explode into a forest fire that sought to consume, to destroy and conquer, his lips parted. A scream passed through them as the doors to the abandoned mall flew open, a howling wind that sounded like the dying breath of masses raced through entryways causing the supernatural members inhabiting the space to howl in pain and the humans to wince, Chris’ gun clattered to the floor as he clapped his hands over his ears.

And for that brief moment in that abandoned mall.

Everything turned to hell.

 

Bolting upright in his bed, Stiles gasped as cold sweat dripped down his face; it covered his skin as well, causing the simple blue shirt he wore to bed to cling to his arms, stomach and back. The acrid smell of sweat tickled his nose as the rough fabric felt itchy as it clung to him like a second skin. The thick sheets he had thrown off of him in his haste to wake up from the vivid nightmare that tormented him pooled around his waist. Stiles shivered, his skin cold despite the warm heat that filtered into his room.

A pecking sound at his bedroom window, forced Stiles to turn his head toward the sound. Slipping his feet out from underneath the sheets, he pressed them to the floor as he pushed himself out of bed and with bare feet padded over to the bedroom window. Curiosity burned in his veins as he stopped in front of the window and peered at it. There was a large, black crow perched upon the branch of the tree outside of his window. It’s wings were slightly stretched apart, its feathers were slightly ruffled and it’s beak open as it squawked at Stiles and pecked at the glass of the window. The birds beady black eyes were locked with Stiles’ own dark ones; staring into them, he felt an unfamiliar feeling—one that was unexplainable tugging at his chest—lifting his hand, he unlatched the window and pushed it upward, letting the chilly night air into his room. Squawking as if to thank him for opening the window, the crow hopped a little closer to the window upon the branch it was perched. His eyes widened as the cold fingers of consternation slid down his back causing him to shiver as the bird before him let out a deafening cry that caused the teeth inside of his skull to clatter against one another. 

Twisting its head around, the crow’s head transformed into the pale, beautiful face of a freckled and dark haired woman. Her hair tumbled down past milky, white cheeks; shiny locks that were the same coloration of the her feathers. Where her neck ended the body of the crow continued, the feather’s seeming to possess a glossy sheen that Stiles hadn’t noticed before. Her eyes that were sunken into her face retained the same beady, coal black eyes that had just been fixated upon him mere moments earlier.

Lips parting, a sound crackled out of her throat, the sound of deep chords lingering in the air after the keys had been struck. Notes deep with a lingering sense of forlornness clinging to them and another sensation that slumbered beneath it all; a distant memory or forgotten dream that floated on the edge of consciousness, it was there, but it easily slipped through fingers as it faded back to the edge. That sweet, sorrowful sound faded to a hum as the bird-woman’s lips flattened out; dark clouds that drifted lazily against a moonless sky provided very little light that made the woman’s lips look a sickly shade of grey to his eyes, her skin seemed to take on an almost translucent hue to it that highlighted this otherworldly quality that swirled around her. There was an intake of a sharp breath and then the woman’s lips parted once more as a sharp scream stabbed through the air.

Gritting his teeth together; the sound tore Stiles apart, the sound flayed his flesh, separated sinew from muscles, tore the very fabric of his being apart, before repiecing him back together only to have the process renew itself in a bubble that made both sensations feel as if they were occuring at once in a interminable cycle. It rang in his ears, a thousand bells that clamored for his individual attention; tears pricked at his eyes as the scream caused visions to flash in the back of his eyes. He was uncertain if they were memories of a past, bloody adventure he had taken on with Scott and his friends at his side or if it was a warning of a future that had yet to come.

Individual scents of death and blood tinged the air, mingling with the heartbreaking sounds of choked sobs and soft wails. Slightly turning his head, Stiles found himself in the woods; air crisp and cold, brown and reddish-orange leaves tumbled down from the trees, disturbed by a cold breeze that chilled to the bone and had a bitter chill to it that eased its way into ones bones. Little flurries danced down from the sky, they twirled, slightly illuminated by the full moon that hung heavily in the sky. It was a scene that had a certain type of fairytale like romanticism to it, but the death and carnage around him served as a grave contrast to the romantic quality of the evening.

Near the shadows of two pine trees, Allison clutched Lydia in her arms. The huntress was smoothing down locks of Lydia’s strawberry-blonde hair as she rocked the girl back and forth in her arms, whispering gentle words to her despite the tears gently careening down her own face. Dried blood coated the collar of the dress Lydia wore, causing the fabric of her dress to look brown underneath the moonlight, despite the fact that it was navy blue; the fabric was decorated with a sprinkling of blooming spider lilies upon it. Narrowing his eyes, he could see the gash on Lydia’s throat that stretched from ear to ear, her lifeless green eyes stared up at Allison’s face. His eyes flickered to just a few feet away where Scott’s motionless body lay.

His arms were spread apart, eyes staring motionlessly up at the sky; flurries fluttered down upon his face, covering his eyelashes in frosted white powder. His claws smeared with dried blood and dirt, a streak of dirt was smeared across his cheek, dried blood smeared his jaw. A gaping hole in his chest mirrored the fullness of the moon that shone eerily down upon his face. Close to Scott, lay the motionless bodies of Isaac and Liam; there was a long gash on Liam’s ribs that exposed the whiteness of his bones beneath layers of muscle and flesh to the cold frigid air. The bones were cracked and one of them was sticking downward out of Liam’s side, the angled position suggesting that his own rib had been pulled out and used to stab up and into his heart. Stiles’ eyes flickered to Parrish; blood oozed from the hellhound’s mouth, but the long, serrated gashes that littered his chest told Stiles that the hellhound wouldn’t be rising again; his skin still littered with deep crags from the transformation, giving Parrish’s skin the resemblance of black volcanic rock, veins of molten lava snaking over his skin. Once the veins had been a vivid red with hints of orange, now they were subdued; the crags of fire emitting a pale light as the embers of fire slowly extinguished.

Just a few feet away, Kira was slack against the thick bark of a white oak tree, pieces of bark that had exploded off of the tree lay scattered on the ground. Her long, dark hair framed a face that was twisted in shock with eyes wide and pointed down toward her own sword that was stabbed into her chest and kept her pinned against the tree. Her hands were slick with freshly dried blood, deep slashes in the palms of them from where she had gripped tightly onto the blade of her sword as it sank into her flesh.

Horror settled into Stiles’ veins as he drank in the sight of chaos around him. Letting out a shaky breath, he attempted to stumble backward and nearly lost his balance, quickly catching himself before he fell, he turned to see what it was that he nearly tripped over.

Bile rose in his throat as he stared down into Derek’s green eyes that were flecked with a little bit of hazel around the irises. The werewolf’s lips were slightly parted, blood smeared across slightly cracked lips. His eyes were fixed upon the sky, face slightly twisted with a look of betrayal burning in dim eyes. Slightly shaking, Stiles could hear only the sound of sharp breaths that he took in an attempt to calm his nerves. The copper smell of blood finally tickled at his nose and with a shaky gaze, Stiles forced his eyes to rake over the form of Derek’s lifeless body; there was a deep stab wound in his chest—right above his heart—the gash puncturing the familiar leather of the jacket he had worn frequently the first time Stiles and Scott had crossed his path. Taking quick, shallow breaths, Stiles allowed his gaze to slide down further only to find himself standing atop the stump of a tree, moss weaved its way through the roots and stretched up towards the flattened stump. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, some part of the fragmented puzzle pieces in his brain slid together until the entire picture was laid out clearly before his eyes.

He was standing atop the Nemeton. Stiles’ eyes went wide as his body began to shake with a swirling cocktail of anxiety and fear; the glint of metal appeared in the corner of his eyes and his gaze shifted toward his hands. A torrent of emotions bubbled inside of his chest as he stared down at a blood covered athame gripped tightly in his right hand, the blade and handle were slick with both flakes of dried blood and some that was fresh; despite the blood, he could make out a silver X upon the black, wooden handle of the athame. His own palms were slick with blood and some deep part of his soul and brain recognized that it was Derek’s own, no, a mixture of his friends blood covering his slick palms and skin.

As he turned to survey the damage that he caused; the amathe slid from his grip, he shakily lifted his blood smeared hands to his head and twisted his fingers through locks of his hair, his fingertips brushing against his scalp as he twisted his eyes shut. His lips parted as a scream ripped itself out of his throat and teared the world apart.

“Stiles!” The sound of his own name barely cut through the sound of his screaming. “Stiles!” His name was said with a little more force. Wrenching his eyes open, he found himself back in his bedroom.

He could feel the thick sheets that had covered his body had been kicked down to his feet, the sheets were entangled between his legs. His sweat drenched skin left a damp spot on the bedspread beneath him; his clothes felt constricted against his skin, his sweat that had soaked into his shirt clung to his body like a exoskeleton and felt tight around his neck like the very fabric sought to strangle the life out of him.

There was a strangled scream coming from somewhere within his room and for a second Stiles wondered if that strange feminine creature was still perched outside of his window, her scream wrenching his very being apart. It took some time for him to register that the scream he was hearing was coming from his own throat.

Stiles flailed in between a pair of strong arms, his father was shouting above his own screams in an attempt to be heard, his warm hand smoothing down locks of Stiles sweat drenched hair in an attempt to calm down his son. “Stiles! Hey! It’s okay, buddy. You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Shaking his head, Stiles could feel the familiar burn of unshed tears in the corners of his eyes. “No, it’s not,” he whispered, “it’s not okay. We’re going to die. We’re all going to die.”

Noah Stilinski said nothing as he simply pressed his cheek against his son’s temple and rocked him between his arms, crooning soothing words into his ear as thick clouds rolled across the night sky outside. They skittered across the full moon that hung brightly in the sky, obscuring it, before rolling across the inky blackness and allowing the light of the moon to shine brightly down upon the town.

 

Laughter filled the chilly night air from the cherry red, four-door Sedan that sped through the street despite the signs that warned this was a 35 mile per hour zone. The frost covered windows had been rolled down sometime before, allowing the cold air of the last few weeks of winter to permeate the interior of the car that smelt like a mixture of fast food, pungent beer and the sweet dragon berry scent that came from the puff of vape smoke that curled out of the window and into the chill air. A light fog rolled across Beacon Hills like a miasma, surrounding the car in a light mist that the driver flipped his brights on in order to permeate through it to see where he was going.

A peal of laughter punctured the night air as the car began to slow down before eventually pulling up to the curb of an apartment complex. The rear, left door flew open as a young woman stumbled out of the car. Her dagger pumps clacking against the asphalt of the road as she stood and smoothened out her long, black skirt before twisting her head around as she stuck her head into the interior of the car from the open window. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” The three other passengers of the car let out words of agreement as they told her to get home safe.

The young woman backed away from the car and watched as it peeled away from the curb and disappeared down the street, the fog swallowing it up until the taillights formed small, red, shapeless blobs in the distance before disappearing altogether.

Turning on her heels, the woman stepped up onto the curb and nearly planted face first down onto the cement of the sidewalk. She dug her heels into the small strip of grass, before pivoting forward, her hands splayed out in front of her as they smacked down onto the sidewalk, her arms quivered as the pocketbook she had slung over her shoulder, slid down to her wrist.

Bile rose in her throat as she swayed lightly on her feet, despite being on steady ground. Pushing the bile down, she made a promise to herself to never again down several Bloody Mary’s in a row in an attempt to impress a potential date that had been more interested in the friend that had tagged along with her to the bar than herself.

Breathing deeply through her mouth, she forced herself upright as her stomach lurched at the movement. Shaking her head, she forced herself forward, her heels clicking against the sidewalk, before the cement changed to the concrete of the parking space of her apartment complex. Legs slightly shaking as she made it halfway across the parking lot, her lips parted as she sung a few words from the song that had been blaring on the speakers at the bar. “— _ she’s got a suitcase full of big dreams! She’s in a city full of bigger lies _ —” A growl in the distance caused her to jump. It sounded like a dog’s, however it was slightly deeper and more throaty. Stumbling, she caught her balance against a light pole.

“Hello?” She called out, her eyes narrowing as she glanced around the empty parking lot. Waiting a few moments, but hearing nothing, she shrugged her shoulders and simply assumed the sound had been nothing as she unzipped her purse, stuck her hand in and fished around the cluttered bag for her apartment keys. The growl came again, causing her to still as a shiver ran up her spine. Turning around quickly, her eyes raked over the empty parking lot. A shaky laugh brushed past her lips as she nearly dismissed the sound as a prank by the next door neighbors two children.

Her eyes settled upon a shadow near a parked Chevy Impala. The shadow seemed large and muscly, she squinted at it and craned her neck in an attempt to get a better look at the shadow; the light from the apartment in front of the Impala flickered on and she took a step backward as she sucked in a breath in between clenched teeth.

What she had assumed to be a rather large pitbull was no such thing. 

Hell she wasn’t even certain what it was.

The beast had a dog’s head, the ears were flat against the side of its head; where there should have been a canine torso there was none. Instead there was the shape of a human torso covered in thick navy, blue fur. Its hind legs didn’t match the claw like front ones it possessed, but instead resembled the hooves of a horse. A single coal black eye in the middle of the beasts forehead stared at her, it’s maw opened revealing a row of teeth that glinted in the moonlight, saliva dripped from the beasts fangs and jaw as it splattered onto the ground.

Her lips parted as a strangled, terrified scream rose and died within her throat. Shaking her head, she quickly shut her eyes and attempted to convince herself that this was merely an alcohol fueled imagination stemming from her mind. Opening her eyes, she quickly realized that it wasn’t the case as the beast’s muscles began to contract as its lips stretched across its teeth in what she assumed was a grin. Like a tense coil snapping, the beasts muscles loosened as it began to sprint across the parking lot toward her. Turning on her heels, she began to run across the parking lot on wobbling heels. 

The beasts growls growing louder and louder as it approached closer. She yelped as her right heel snapped as it came down onto the pavement, pivoting forward she had no time to brace her fall. Her face smashed down against the pavement, but she placed her hand palm down on either side of her and forced her head up. She could taste blood in her mouth and feel the hot liquid streaming down her lips from her broken nose. Turning her head, she saw the beast only a few feet away from her and it was approaching terribly fast. Forcing herself up onto her feet, she kicked her feet out of the pumps and placed her stocking covered feet down upon the cool asphalt.

Her lungs slammed inside of her chest as she ran toward the elevator of her apartment complex. She jammed her finger against the up button. “Come on. Come on.” She implored repeatedly, smashing the button again and again with her index finger as if that would implore to open up faster.

The metal doors slid apart and she quickly threw herself into the metal box, before spinning on bare heels as she repeatedly stabbed the button that would close the elevator doors with her finger. The beast raced toward the elevator, slobber dripping down it’s maw, before it leapt in the air. The elevator doors slowly slid shut as hot tears raced down her cheeks.

Sliding closed, the beast slammed into the elevator doors leaving a sizeable dent within the metal. She could hear it whimpering as her knees buckled together and she slid down onto the dirty elevator floor. Her heaving breaths the only sound within the four, enclosed metal walls. Jumping with fright, she watched as the dent in the elevator doors grew bigger and bigger as the beast—apparently recovered from being shaken up—slammed itself against the doors repeatedly. Reaching out, she pressed the second button for her floor of the complex as the sound of groaning metal under the weight of a heavy pressure filled the elevator.

Lurching, the elevator dinged as the metal box pulled itself upward. A sob of pure relief forced itself past her lips as she took the short ride up to her floor. Chiming to signify the elevator had arrived to its destination, the doors slid apart and she stood with quaking legs before tumbling out onto the floor.

Sighing in relief, she lifted her purse to face, attempting to rifle through it for her keys once more. Taking a step, she stilled again as a growl cut through the air. Her knees knocked together as she turned her head to see the beast a few feet away from her. Its claw came down as it climbed the last stair, a wail pierced the air as she quickly turned on her feet and raced toward the apartment of her nextdoor neighbor.

Her hand smacked down on the thick, wooden door. “Mr. Addams!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, her hand beating against the door as she could hear the television set of the slightly older man blaring out the screams of a woman from one of the classical horror films that he enjoyed watching. “Mr. Addams!” She slammed her fist against the door as the sound from the TV grew louder and louder, drowning out her pleas.

She turned her head, the tears billowing out of her eyes streamed down faster against her cheeks. The beast was only a feet away from her now. 30 inches. 15. Then one.

She could smell its breath; a mixture of raw meat and rotting corpses. She turned, her face peering at the door of her neighbor as she slammed her fist down on it repeatedly, screaming out for him as the beasts teeth sank down into the black stocking covering her left leg. The fabric stretched apart as its teeth sank deeper into the flesh of her leg; blood billowed to the surface of her skin as the beast wrenched her away from the door. Her fingernails embedded themselves into the wood, drawing thick grooves down the door as blood welted onto the tips of her fingers.

A scream ripped itself out of her throat as she rolled onto her stomach, her blood covered fingers digging into the ground for purchase as as the hem of her skirt slightly tore.

Mouth widening, she let out a horrible, gut wrenching scream as the beasts teeth sunk deeper into her flesh and wrenched her into the shadows.

Inside of his apartment, Mr. Addams frowned at the sound of a scream. Turning his head toward his door, he narrowed his eyes at it, but shrugged as he turned his attention back to his TV screen. In black and white, the villagers let out a gasp as torchlight fell on the mutilated body of a young woman. Claw marks littered the tattered fabric of what once had once been pristine clothes, blood covered her body and teeth marks littered her flesh.

The villagers gasped as an old man, hardened by years of bitter experience scowled at the scene, remarked to the villagers in his thick, European accent. “It was the work of the beast.”


	2. False Visions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, what's this? An update? It must be Christmas or something. Anyway I'm back with a new chapter, but since I'm working on a ton of projects at the same time, my updates for this fic are going to be way slower than I would like.

Groaning as the morning light filtered through the blinds of his bedroom window. Stiles scrunched up his eyes and rolled onto his side, so that his nose was touching the wall to avoid the sunlight. The house was silent, an almost commonplace noise these past few months. 

Waking up to an empty house had become nothing more than a common routine for him.

Come home only to get greeted by an empty and silent shell of a house. 

Do homework. 

Eat. 

Text his dad. 

Fall asleep. 

Wake up and repeat. 

Lacrosse practice. 

Hang out with Scott. 

Deal with whatever threat of the week decided to pop up in town. 

Come home. 

Bandage his cuts and bruises. 

Sit down at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal. Too tired to cook if it’s only him at home, breathing life into a home that stopped feeling alive years ago.

It was a monotonous circle that he found himself in. One that repeated over and over; a bleeding black and white picture that had the color bleached out of it years ago.

But today, that circle seemed to have broken. 

His eyes slowly opened as the smell of frying bacon trickled into the room. Groaning out heavily, he rolled onto his back and silently stared up at the stark white paint of his ceiling. The house was oddly still, though the normal silence that had pressed down on the house the past few months was replaced by the movement of feet, the sound of pans and pots being moved around, and the fridge being opened and slammed shut.

Sitting up in bed, Stiles dragged a hand down the tired lines of his face, before swinging his legs over the side of his bed and making his way to the bathroom where he quickly washed his face, brushed his teeth, and attempted to drag a comb through his wild locks of hair; only to give up on the comb after a few minutes and instead use his hand in an attempt to tame the wild strands that seemed incessant on behaving only to their commands. Heading back to his room, he quickly got dressed and found himself running down the steps with his backpack thrown over his shoulders nearly ten minutes later.

Heading into the kitchen, he found his father—to his surprise—bent over the kitchen stove, a spatula clutched tightly in his right hand as a cast iron pan sizzled, the smell of melting butter hovered in the air as pancake batter bubbled in the center of the pan. Stiles warily glanced at his father, expectant to see him in his familiar sheriff’s uniform, ready to head to work and confront whatever problem landed on his desk. Instead, he was dressed from head to toe in a pair of beige colored pants and a cotton blue polo shirt.

It was a jarring sight to behold. Another obstruction in the slow-moving river that represented his life; a growing dam that was constantly getting new material added to it. Seeing his father like this, dressed in casual clothes, his forehead free of the constant worry lines and stressed out wrinkles that were becoming as natural upon his face as the fatherly look of annoyance that he pulled whenever Stiles found himself in trouble was jarring.

Here, right now, this picturesque vision of casualness and domesticity with the kitchen island laden with a paper towel-lined plate of freshly cooked bacon, a bowl of scrambled eggs and two pairs of plates, cutlery, and glasses had Stiles taking in a shuddering breath as his eyes flickered over the contents placed upon the island. Everything felt normal like it had been before Scott got bitten, before the Kanima, Lydia discovering she was a Banshee, the Dread Doctors. Everything.

It was a normalcy that Stiles had wished for months to come back into his life, provide him with a bit of footing on a road that was dangerous and littered with traps. This normalcy should have been a welcoming embrace for him, but he could feel the claws digging into his haggard edges and pulling at the frayed pieces of his being. He didn’t feel like he belonged in this bubble of normalcy, he realized. While everything around him had changed, he had changed the most. Like a defunct puzzle piece in the box that had been added by mistake, an extra piece that didn’t fit anywhere and wouldn’t join together with any other piece no matter how long you spent attempting to fit them together.

Stiles ignored the worried look his father gave him as he twisted his torso away from the stove to stare at his son—finally aware of his presence in the kitchen. As the Sheriff’s brows pinched together, mouth flattening out to a pale, line of worried contemplation, Stiles made a beeline for the fridge, throwing it open and letting the blast of cold, refrigerated air press against his body as the fridge door blocked his father from his view and served as a small barrier between them and the inevitable barrage of worried observations that were just begging to fall from his father’s lips.

“Stiles—”

“No.” The single word was brisque and cold to the core; something that made Stiles wince at the own chill that brushed across his skin at the reply. Giving a small shake of his head, he reached in to pull out a carton of orange juice and kicked the fridge door shut with the heel of his sneaker. “I’m not doing this right now, dad.”

The Sheriff frowned at that, quickly killing the heat on the stove, he turned around to face Stiles. His arms crossing over his chest with the spatula gripped firmly in his hand and tucked safely in the crook of his arms. There was worry burning in his eyes, his lips pale as they parted, “I’m worried about you.” That knife sunk deeply into Stiles’ heart and twisted itself into the flesh. 

Pursing his lips, he quickly untwisted the cap from the carton and pressed his lips to the spout. The acrid tang of artificially sweetened orange juice burned on his tongue as he pointedly gazed at the dark hazelnut of the cabinets in an effort to avoid his father’s inquisitive, yet worried gaze.

“After the Nogitsune,” his father continued, briefly hesitating before adding upon the point he was trying to make. “—after what happened with Donovan—”

The acrid tang on his tongue became overwhelming as Stiles frowned, pulling the carton away from his lips as his father drudged on despite the obvious tension building in Stiles’ shoulders. “Not to mention what happened last night.” Waving his hand in his father’s direction, in an effort to dismiss his concern.

“Nothing happened last night. It was just a nightmare.” His appetite now soured by the conversation, Stiles recapped the carton, opened the fridge and replaced the orange juice back inside before slamming the door shut and turning on his heels only to come face to face with his father.

Threading his fingers through his hair, Stiles sighed as he let his hand drop to his side and stared at his father.

The frown on the Sheriff’s face had seemed to deepen, the wrinkles of worry lining his forehead had become more pronounced. “I’ve seen you have nightmares before, Stiles. That wasn’t like one of them.” The Sheriff sighed as he reached up to scrub at his face with a rough, calloused hand. “Maybe we can go to Deaton or get in touch with the Yukimura’s to see if this has anything to do with the Nogitsune or whatever goddamn monster exists out there.” Before Stiles could protest his father already has his phone in his hand and was pressing his thumb against the keypad of his phone.

“Dad!” Stiles vociferated, the corners of his lips twisted downward. “Just stop...just stop.” 

The Sheriff’s eyes had briefly widened in shock at the shout from his son. He frowned as he slightly pulled his phone away from his ear.

“I’m going to be late for school,” Stiles mumbled before adjusting the strap of his book bag on his shoulder. Sidestepping his father, he quickly strode to the front door but paused at the sound of his father’s heavy footsteps pausing just a few feet behind him. 

“Stiles, you know you can talk to me—” he paused, “—about anything, alright?”

Avoiding his father’s gaze, he twisted the door handle. “I know,” he softly whispered underneath his breath, a sound that was eaten up by the brisk November air that flowed into the house. “I know.”

 

Having made nearly thousands of stupid, regrettable decisions in his young life. Stiles nearly doubted that he could come to regret making the nearly 25-minute drive to school, but he now did. The AC was blasting frigid air into the interior of his jeep, despite the cold temperatures outside.

Sweat plastered his forehead, face, and the back of his neck. His shirt sticking to him in odd places due to the sweat that drenched his body. His stomach lurched as he pulled into the parking lot of school and he forced himself to clamp his mouth shut, breathing deeply through his nose as he hoped that the queasiness in his stomach would quickly pass.

The moment he left his house it was like his body turned against him. His limbs became heavy, mouth suddenly dry and his body as frigid as the temperatures outside, despite the heat burning in his core. Droplets of sweat had broken out on the surface of his skin causing locks of his hair to plaster themselves against his forehead and his clothes to stick to his body.

Quickly maneuvering the jeep into an empty space in the crowded parking spot, despite the agitated blare of a car horn and a quick flip of a middle finger from a junior who had been clearly waiting for the spot for quite some time. He left the engine running as a pained groan ripped itself out of his throat, his knuckles had gone white as his grip on the steering wheel tightened, and he let his head fall forward. His forehead collided with the leather of the steering wheel as a headache pounded against the front of his skull, causing his teeth to clatter and his vision to swim.

Sucking in deep breaths as his stomach flipped again, he shuddered as bile burned against the interior walls of his throat. Quickly pressing a hand to his mouth, a brief thought that he was going to be sick flashed across his mind. Rapping of knuckles against his window, forced him to lift his head from the steering wheel as he turned his head, his grip on the steering wheel tightened until the bones of his knuckles were whiter than the paleness of his own skin. Scott’s face greeted his vision, littered with scratches and cuts; there was a streak of dirt on his chin, flecks of dried blood covered his slightly stubbled jaw. Shaking in his seat, he focused his gaze on Scott’s chest where a gaping hole where his heart should have existed.

Before Scott could even raise his knuckles to rap against the window once more. Stiles had already unbuckled his seatbelt, threw open the drivers door of the jeep and stumbled out onto the asphalt of the parking lot where he dropped to his knees, the palms of his hands pressed against the asphalt as he ignored the sharp press of pebbles against his skin as well as the concerned look of students who stopped in the parking lot to point and stare at him. Some already fishing out their phones from pockets or bags to film or snap photos of him as he emptied the contents of his stomach out onto the asphalt. Tears streamed down his face until there was nothing left for him to empty and he instead let out several dry heaves until he felt a broad hand being placed upon his shoulder.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned his head to gaze into Scott’s worried eyes, before letting his gaze flicker over Scott’s face and to his chest. 

There were no wounds there. Scott’s body was smooth and whole; unblemished with none of the cuts or wounds Stiles had seen so vividly just mere moments before.

“Stiles.” Scott’s lips were twisted into a frown, his brown eyes usually glittering with an almost puppy-like visage were subdued with worry. “Are you alright? You don’t smell too good,” he wrinkled his nose, “and you don’t look it either.” He stated, pointedly looking at Stiles’ pale, sweaty features and bits of dried vomit that smeared the right knee of his jeans.

It was Stiles’ turn to scowl, a look that somehow made his face appear to be more gaunt and pale than it was right now. “I’m fine,” he protested as he attempted to stand, only to have his vision swim as a lightning fast headache cracked across his cranium. Scott’s firm grip on his shoulder kept him steady as the werewolf helped him, shakily, rise to his feet.

“Stiles, it’s okay if you skip classes today. I’ll just catch you up on anything you miss and drop off some homework and notes by your house later.”

Shaking his head, Stiles attempted to protest yet again, but the firm grip Scott had on his shoulder, the digging of his fingers into clothed flesh made his parted lips close shut.

“You barely look like you can make it through first period, okay? I don’t need you passing out on me in English.” Scott’s worried frown blossomed into a wicked grin, that displayed the whites of his teeth. “Go home. Get some rest, Stiles.”

Breathing deeply, Stiles allowed Scott to steer him back to the driver’s side of the jeep by the strong grip he had on Stiles’ shoulder. It wasn’t until Stiles was safely seated in the jeep, buckled into place and the wheezing of the engine beneath his feet that he rolled down his window so that Scott could poke his head inside.

“You sure you can make it home alright? I can drive you back home.” 

Stiles shook his head, “It’s fine.”

Not looking entirely convinced, Scott grinned at him and moved away from the jeep as Stiles backed out of the parking space, gave Scott a little wave, and made his way back onto the main street.

The window was still down, the AC still turned up to full blast. Both felt like a kiss to his fevered skin but did little to quench the heat that was festering inside of him. A blur of greenery mixed with residential and commercial properties that passed by the exterior of the jeep. The main street that ran through town was quiet, sparsely any vehicles traversed the road. He drove for a few minutes until there was a section where the trees became tightly packed together, his eyes widened as he saw the hulking mass of an emaciated dog lumbering into the road. His eyebrows pinched together as his jeep approached the dog that was nearly a yard away. Its torso resembled that of a grown man, covered in thick blue fur that almost looked black despite the clear sky above his head. It’s back legs looked broken, fixed at an odd angle, but the closer he got the more he realized that they resembled hooves.

Stiles barely noticed that his knuckles had gone white as he was a few feet away from it. The beast turned its head, its ears cropped against its head as the single eye within its skull focused on Stiles and blinked.

Fear flooded his veins as he lifted his foot to stamp down on his brake pedal. The jeep lurched as Stiles’ body jerked forward, his forehead smacking into the steering wheel as a pained groan ripped itself out of his mouth. A chorus of car horns blared behind him as he shakily lifted his head to see that the beast was no longer in the road. The road was barren; the spot where the beast had previously stood filled the expanse of Stiles’ vision as he felt the muscles in his arms quiver despite himself. Taking a series of shaky breaths, Stiles forced his foot back on the gas pedal, continuing to drive down the street, his mind numb as he pulled into the driveway of his home.

His father’s sheriff car wasn’t there, so he thanked the universe for one small miracle.

Twisting the key in the engine, Stiles let his head fall back against the headrest of his seat as the engine spluttered off. Letting his fingers slip from the steering wheel, he stared down in surprise at his arms.

The muscles were clearly shaking in his body; he swallowed, attempting to force the lump that was forming in his throat down into the depths of his body. Breathing deeply through his mouth, he let an entire minute tick by before pulling the keys out of the ignition, grabbing his backpack and pushing open the jeep door.

His feet had barely even touched the ground when he felt a heat flare upon the skin of his neck, he felt his gaze being pulled across the street. The strap of his backpack that he gripped tightly in his hand, slipped. The soft thud of his bag hitting the asphalt driveway rang in his ears as a cold chill wrapped around his body.

Across the street that beast he saw just nearly 20 minutes before was staring at him. It was sitting on Mrs. Hatherly’s lawn, as plain as day.

Lifting a single front claw, the beast meandered forward. Stiles’ heart slammed into his throat as he tore his gaze away from the monster, spun on his heels, and raced toward the house, leaving his backpack behind. Racing toward the front door, he shoved his house key into the lock and nearly let out a shout of happiness as the lock came undone. Twisting the knob of the door, he pulled the key out, rushed inside, and slammed the door shut behind him. Stiles was shaking as he made his way into the living room, rushing over to the windows he parted the blind to see that beast pacing around the edge of the property. Lifting a claw, it attempted to push it forward in order to place it down on the front lawn but jerked its limb back as if it had been burned. Throwing its head back, the beast let out a sound that reverberated in Stiles’ ears. It was a low, harsh sound that nearly drove him to his knees in desperation.

He was shaken as a watery film covered his eyes, blinking away the tears that had been wrenched out of him, he focused his gaze back onto the beast that was now waiting perched on its hind hooves. Its head was cocked to the side as if it was biding for the time Stiles would eventually have to come out of the house...or when it could find a way to get in.

Backing away from the window, he nearly jumped out of his own skin as the sound of his ringtone thrilled in the air as the vibrations in his back pocket led him to slip his hand into it and pull out his phone. His father’s smiling face was the first thing he saw on his screen as he pressed his thumb against the call button and slid it to the left.

“Stiles? I’m not going to be home later until tonight.” It was the first words that greeted him as he pressed the phone to his ear.

“Why?”

“Well—” The Sheriff paused as he turned around to take in the blocked off crime scene; black and yellow tape separated curious bystanders from the EMT’s that were zipping up the deceased body of a young girl that they had placed into a body bag. Their faces were pale, a similar coloration that the Sheriff noticed was on everyone’s face, including the young deputy that had been carted off to the hospital nearly half an hour prior after she threw up her lunch when she had glanced at the body. Sighing the Sheriff shook his head, pushing away the imagery of a young woman, body littered with claw marks, deep puncture wounds, and a torso that was connected to a waist by only a few thin strips of muscle, sinew and a spinal column that looked like it was more than ready to snap clean in two. “—I just got a new case.”

Stiles nodded on the other end of the call. It at least explained why his father’s car was nowhere in sight when he pulled into the driveway.

Sensing an unusual quietness from his son, the Sheriff pursued his lips, letting a pregnant pause sweep over the two of them before finally speaking. “Stiles...is everything okay?”

Eyes sweeping upward toward the window, Stiles shuddered at the thought of monster waiting for him outside of his home. One that he was slowly by the second, wondering if it was a creation of his own mind. He swallowed, willing himself to force down the bundle of nerves that was building in his throat. “I’m fine.” The lie felt like acid dissolving on his tongue. “I just got sick at school and Scott told me I wasn’t looking too hot, so I drove myself home.”

“Alright.” the Sheriff said after some time, he didn’t exactly sound convinced but Stiles knew that he had more important issues to deal with right now than to worry about his son. “ Just make sure you get some rest, take some medicine, and make sure that you eat something.” Stiles could hear someone calling for his father in the background.

“I will dad.”

“Alright, I have to go. But try and rest, Stiles.”

“I will, I will.” He grumbled, before telling his father goodbye, as he ended the call.

Sighing, he shakily threaded his fingers through his hair. Walking over to the windows, he peeked outside to see Ms. Olivieri walking her Siberian Husky puppy down the street, she spotted him peeking out of his window and gave him a neighborly wave as she passed. Gaze flickering up and down the street, he searched for a glimpse of the beast but found nothing. Blinking, he pulled himself away from the window, to rub at his eyes that were underlined by the dark circles that sagged underneath his eyes. Worry was beginning to claw at his skin as part of him wondered whether he was going crazy or not.

Running outside to retrieve his book bag, he rushed back into the house and headed straight to the kitchen, where he dumped backpack onto the island. Pulling open the cupboards and the fridge, he slapped together a cheese and turkey sandwich, smothered with mayo, lettuce, and tomato. Grabbing his bag off of the island, he walked toward the hallway but paused in his steps as the sound of scratching reached his ears. He frowned as he glanced around the hallway to see if the source of the noise was coming from there, as quickly as it came through, the sound faded away.

Thinking nothing of it, Stiles went up to his room, where he settled down at his desk. His psychology textbook was spread across his desk, laptop open to a blank Word document as he absentmindedly wiggled the highlighter he held between his index and middle finger. Scrubbing at his face with his other hand, he shut his laptop and sighed in frustration as that scratching nose he had heard earlier had come back.

It was like long nails being drug down a chalkboard and it seemed to grow louder with each passing second. Glancing at his phone, he tapped the screen, where giant white numbers popped up indicating that it was only a few minutes till 9 pm. His head was pounding as he bit down on his lower lip, swiveling his chair around, he eyed his bed, praying that whatever eavesdropping spirit that was listening to him would allow his burgeoning headache to go away along with this scratching noise if he went to bed early.

Getting up, he changed into his nightclothes and collapsed onto his bed and shot off a quick text to Scott about seeing him tomorrow at school, before rolling onto his side.

He never thought trying to fall asleep would prove so difficult, but the sound grew louder and louder till he ripped a pillow from underneath his head and smothered his face with it, hoping that it would drown out the noise. It hardly worked, causing him to fling the pillow across his room where it hit something in the darkness causing both the pillow and the object to topple to the floor. Grabbing his phone, he pressed the home button, illuminating his lock screen which caused him to squint because of the harsh light. It was midnight, but his mind was far from calming down.

The scratching was growing louder as he rolled on his side, squeezing his eyes shut, he quelled the tears that were burning in the corners of his eyes. Sitting up, he pushed himself off of the bed and switched on the lamp that was on his end table, illuminating his room with a small pool of pale, yellow light. Walking over to a corner of his room that had a pile of discarded clothing, he plucked a dark red hoodie out from the pile, gave it a quick sniff, determined that it smelt clean. He threw it on, zipped it up halfway, and headed back to his end table where he scooped up his keys and cell phone, before switching off the light and heading outside to his jeep.

Hopping inside of it, he switched on the engine, pulled out of the driveway, and headed to the one place he felt far safer at than any other place in Beacon Hills.

It was nearly a 45-minute long drive to his destination. His windows were down, letting in the cool night air to caress against his skin that burned despite the chill in the air. Pulling into the near empty parking lot, Stiles killed his engine, got out of his car, and walked into the building where he took the elevator that slowly chugged its way up to the top floor, depositing him some feet away from a pair of familiar, large iron doors that he hadn’t stepped foot in front of what seemed like eons ago.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles walked over to the doors and pulled them apart, revealing to his eyes a dusty room that had seen better times just a few months ago when everything hadn’t seemed complicated—or well as complicated as a bunch of teenagers who’d face werewolves, Kanima, and everything else the supernatural world dared to throw at them could call—but now everything was a mess in his eyes. Remnants of furniture were left behind in the dust-covered room; a few broken chairs, an old, scratched up table, and other broken furniture that Derek had left behind.

Had chosen to leave behind. Picking his way around the empty loft, Stiles ran the tips of his fingers over the back of a dust-covered couch as memories sweltered in his minds of evenings spent in the loft alongside the rest of the pack, planning how to take down the weekly baddy, planning how to just survive the night, or the lull nights where no one for once was dying—yet—and the spent hours huddled over laptops, books, and ancient tomes that seemed so alive Stiles had sworn one had taken a breath when he wasn’t looking. They’d all shed blood here—more than any of them would have liked to—alongside the tears that had spilled down their cheeks. Here, they’d all been broken more times than they could count, but always relied on each other to help piece themselves back up.

Swallowing thickly, Stiles pulled his fingers away from the couch, leaving dirt and dust clinging to his fingers as he willed the bitter feelings in his chest to go down. His memories burned; a bittersweet reminder of what had been just a few months before, just a few months before Derek had left and senior year began. Before everyone started drifting apart, including his own relationships with everyone—Stiles swallowed, wondering the last time when he and Scott even hung out or when he and Malia were in the same room with each other. Stiles knew their days were numbered; their days before graduation were inevitably they all would leave Beacon Hills to branch out on their own paths.

His head feeling a little bit more cleared and the scratching noise nowhere to be heard, Stiles turned away from the couch, sensing that it was late and his father would undoubtedly be home soon.

Nothing else could go wrong with his night…

...he only wished that had been true as a large shadow loomed in the doorway of the loft. The beast that he had seen earlier was pacing the entryway of the loft, its maw hanging open and the skin of its mouth pulled back into a grim smile as it tipped its head back and sniffed at the air. Stiles shook his head, swallowing down the fear that was building inside of him. This wasn’t real, none of this was real. He could simply chalk this all up to hallucinations caused by sleep deprivation. If he just went home and got a few hours of sleep, everything would be fine.

Taking a step forward, Stiles simply planned to walk straight out of the loft, walk straight through this horrific projection of a beast that was simply a conjuration of his own mind. It would vanish into smoke, along with the scratching sounds and the horrible dreams and he would go back to being a normal high school senior. But as he took that step, the beast reared up on its hind hooves and let out a gut curdling roar that rattled the windows of the loft and shook Stiles to the very core of his soul.

Fear bloomed in the hollow of his throat, as he made a move towards the doors of the loft, a move that proved futile as the beast dropped on all fours and launched itself toward him. Its maw was wide open, revealing the glint of sharp metallic teeth. A scream wrenched itself from his throat as he felt the hot, searing tear of his flesh as the teeth pierced through the skin of his arm. Blood welled to the surface and flowed down in streams into the beast’s mouth, its rough tongue lapped at the blood streaming into its mouth as if it was dying of thirst. He could feel the teeth piercing through more than just the skin as they embedded themselves further, pushing past muscles and bone as he fell back due to the creature’s body weight dragging him down. 

His back collided with the hard concrete floor of the loft as his face contorted with a searing hot pain that exploded in his head, leaving behind a dizzying whiteness that bloated out any rational thought or feeling besides the pain that shot up his arm and made his stomach lurch as the urge to puke became overwhelming.

But he needed to break free from the creature’s grip on his arm, or else he didn’t know what would make him blackout first; the shock of the pain or blood loss. Using his other free hand, Stiles curled his fingers inward to his palm, forming a fist. He threw a punch at the creature’s head, it growled around a mouthful of his flesh and only sunk its teeth further into his arm. He lobbed a punch at the creature’s head over and over, his fist becoming a blur in his steadily hazy sight. “Get off!” the growl ripped itself from between clenched teeth. A feverish haze brushed over his skin, the rivulets of blood streaming down his arm felt like the warm burn of one's first sip of alcohol. It spread from limb to limb, spreading through his body, invading his cells. The warmth licked at his skin, consuming him; a dry brush fire that would rip through Californian vegetation in the summer. His mouth fell open, as he felt the fire trying to push its way out of his skin. It rushed into his throat, attempting to worm its way through his mouth.

Gasping for breath, he could feel the fire peaking. It’s crackling flames a dark melody in his ears...and then...everything burst. A dam breaking apart, stone tumbling past other stones, he barely noticed the warmth numbing his skin, but he grew aware of the crackles of orange-reddish flames above him mingling with the scent of burnt, rotting flesh. Iron teeth released themselves from his flesh, leaving behind wide wounds in the sleeve of his hoodie. The beast jerked its head back away from Stiles’ arm as flames licked over its skin. Its flesh bubbled as the flames crackled over its skin, rearing its head back it let out a painful scream as it used one of its front claws to swipe at its head. Letting out another horrific scream, the beast shook its body, colliding with broken pieces of furniture as it moved wildly in the loft. It crashed into the couch, leaving scorch marks across the tattered fabric as it crushed the metal springs and metal frame of the couch, leaving behind a rather large dent.

Stiles wasn’t planning on sticking around for too long as he bolted up from his position on the floor. He rushed out of the loft and to the elevator, his heart pounded in his throat as the elevator slowly made its way up to the top floor and he threw himself in. 

He was shaking as the elevator lurched before making its slow descent down to the ground floor. The cries of the beast echoed throughout the hallway, a series of cries that bounced off of the wall; a haunting melody that rang in Stiles’ ears even as he reached into the pockets of his pants to pull out his phone. His thumb flying over the screen as he called the one number in his phone that he feel could make sense of this mess.

 

Leaning against the side of his jeep, Stiles squinted as a set of headlights pulled into the parking lot of the industrial apartment complex. The two adjacent pools of light, cut through the darkness of the night as the loud hum of the engine spluttered off into a soft purr as the sound slowly faded into nothingness as the lights dimmed until the only light source illuminating the parking lot was a few stray lights from some random apartments in the building—he thought the entire building was deserted, but he supposed it wouldn’t make much sense to keep the building deserted. The figure on the motorcycle kicked the stand down, sliding off the bike, Scott removed his helmet, hooking it on one of the handles of his bike. He tugged at his dark, denim jacket, eyes fixated on Stiles as a worried frown stretched across his face. 

“Dude, what happened? What’s going on?” Scott crossed the short distance that separated him and Stiles, coming to stand at Stiles’ side.

Stiles was still shaking, he didn’t know if it was the rush of adrenaline that was slowly wearing off or the brisk breeze that was sweeping over the parking lot and permeated itself even through his thin hoodie. “I don’t know,” he shook his head, “I came to the loft to...think and something attacked me. Look.” Stiles held up the arm that had gotten bitten, causing Scott to frown as his eyes flickered over the arm and to Stiles’ face before going back to the offered limb again.

Reaching out, Scott rolled up Stiles’ hoodie to reveal smooth, unblemished flesh as if the earlier attack had never happened. Stiles frowned, his brows pinching together in frustration as he shook his head. Yanking his arm back, he looked it over, running the fingertips of his other hand across the smooth skin. There were no indentations that indicated numerous punctures or streaks of fresh or dry blood marring his skin. There was nothing. Nothing, as if everything Stiles had just witnessed and seen was all in his head.

Shaking his head, Stiles made a movement as if to turn, “You have to come up to the loft. I’m telling you Scott, whatever attacked me is still up there. It’s still—”

A pair of firm hands gripped Stiles’ shoulder and turned him around so that he was staring into Scott’s eyes. “No.” Scott sighed, letting his head fall until his chin was nearly touching his chest. His grip on Stiles’ shoulders tightened as he lifted his head. “I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately, but you’re not well. I’ll call your dad, see if he can make sure that you get back home safe.”

An incredulous chuckle fell from Stiles’ lips as he looked at Scott, really looked at him and realized that his closest and only best friend thought one thing—that Stiles was crazy. That every single word, every single thing that had happened to him recently was just the delusions of his own mind.

Stiles had zoned out as this new wave of revelation crashed over him, but he perked up at Scott mentioning seeking help from Ms. Morrell. He lashed out; lifting his arms, he pushed Scott away from him, causing a flicker of surprise to flash in Scott’s eyes.

“You think I’m crazy!”

Scott was taken aback by the accusation; his brows furrowing in anger as his mouth settled into a firm line. “I’m not saying you’re crazy, Stiles.”

Stiles scoffed, “No, you may not be saying it, but you sure as hell are implying it.”

Shaking his head, Scott pressed a single hand to his forehead before pointing a single finger in Stiles’ direction. “You’ve changed.” Those words were like a knife to Stiles’ core. “Everything that happened with Donovan, everything that happened after Theo...you’ve just...you haven’t been the same Stiles and that makes me worried for you. I’m worried about you because you’re changing and I don’t know what my best friend is becoming.”

A bark of cruel laughter tore through the air. A tired smile slipped across Stiles’ face. “You want to talk about people changing, Scott? News flash, but I’m not the one who's changed. You are.”

Scott’s head jerked back, his eyes flashing a vivid shade of red for a few rigid seconds before settling back to their normal brown color. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He growled out.

“Do I have to point it out to you, Scott!?” Stiles threw his hands up into the air. “Everything you’ve done this past year has reeked of hypocrisy! I came to you terrified and afraid after what happened with Donovan and what did you do!? You took Theo’s side—a friend you hadn’t seen for years and who just came back into your life compared to a friend who's been by your side since we were kids. You took his side and didn’t even believe me; you didn’t even attempt to try.” He jabbed a finger in Scott’s chest, who batted his hand aside like it was an offending bug. “You’ve always done this dude, you make everyone around you feel guilty for not living up to your moral high ground without realizing you’re the biggest hypocrite in the first place!”

“Stiles,” Scott growled out his friend’s name. A low growl that made Stiles want to clamp his mouth shut, look apologetic, get into his jeep and pretend this fight never happened. But he was damn tired; so tired that he wasn’t willing to back down.

“No! You made me feel like shit for feeling so goddamn guilty about defending myself against Donovan. When the hell have you ever felt guilty over any of the shit you tried to pull? Huh? Have you ever felt guilty over trying to kill Peter? Or using Derek to do it? Have you ever felt guilty over planning to murder Gerard! God!” Stiles hurled the word out into the air, tears pricked in the corners of his eyes. 

Scott shook his head, a scoff rumbling out of his throat. “Stiles we’ve been through this already. I apologized to you about everything that happened to Theo and Donovan. And Peter and Gerard....at the time I thought they were good plans. I thought I was doing the right thing!”

Tears were streaking down Stiles’ face as he narrowed his eyes at Scott. “You still don’t get it. I knew you would never really get it. You never do. You preach to everyone around you about following some impressive moral code, but instead are the biggest hypocrite out of everyone else. You have flaws so big that it’s a fuckin wonder you don’t see them yourself, Scott.”

“None of us are perfect, Stiles.”

Stiles shook his head, lifting his hands so that his fingers were threaded through the locks of his hair. He looked ready to pull them out at the roots. “Oh my—” He paused, shaking his head yet again. “You really don’t get it.” He let his hands fall back to his sides. “You sure as hell may be an Alpha, Scott, but that doesn’t mean you’ve been acting like one.”

Scott bristled at those words. “You don’t know what it’s like to be in my position, Stiles! You can’t lecture me.”

“Oh!?” Stiles spat. “Because I’m human? Yea, sure, Scott.” Stiles took a dangerous step toward Scott; their faces nearly touching. Scott could smell the sharp, bitter notes of anger that wafted off of Stiles’ in waves. “I can’t tell you what it’s like to be an Alpha, but I’ve spent a hell of a lot of time around a former one and let me tell you, Scott.” Stiles lifted a single finger to jab it above Scott’s heart. “He was more of an Alpha than you.” Stiles turned away from Scott, spinning on his heels to avoid the pained look that flashed across Scott’s face. His words had hurt, but he wanted Scott to hurt as much as he did.

“What do you want me to do, Stiles? I can’t just fill Derek’s void because I’m not him!”

Whirling around to face Scott, fury colored Stiles’ face. “I don’t want you to be Derek!”

“Then what do you want?”

“I just want you to believe me! I just want you to for once in a very long time, believe in what I’m saying! To believe that I’m not crazy!:

Scott couldn’t bring himself to look at Stiles’ face, instead, he focused pointed his gaze toward the ground. Earning yet another scoff of annoyance from Stiles, who shook his head and turned toward his jeep. “You know, Derek would have,” Stiles muttered underneath his breath. He didn’t need to glance back to see the mortification coloring Scott’s face. A stiff breeze swept over the parking lot, causing him to shiver as he opened the driver’s door to his jeep. Shoving his key into the engine, he turned it, his headlights cut through the darkness of the parking lot. 

Casting one more glance toward the apartment complex, he drove through the parking lot and merged onto the main road. The trees flanking either side of the road swallowed him into the darkness. Even as he drove away from the apartment complex, the echoing cries of that creature, mingled with the scent of burning flesh seemed to follow after him. Reaching up to the adjust the rearview mirror, Stiles angled it, his fingers stilling as a few feet behind him, moving out from the shadows of the trees, the beast its flesh charred black and bubbled over from the fire was illuminated from a thin strip of moonlight that pierced through the trees.

He blinked and opened his eyes to a clear road behind him. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles shining from the sheer paleness of his skin.

He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t crazy.

He tried to believe his own words, but part of him was beginning to question himself…

...what if he was?


	3. Communication is a Two Way Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time. I haven't forgotten about this fic in the slightest, but I'm back with a new chapter that will hopefully tide over everyone as I outline the rest of the fic and work on the newest chapter after this one.

The engine in his jeep came to a spluttering halt as he yanked his keys out of the ignition. Bullets of sweat were dripping down Stiles’ skin as he clambered out of the vehicle. The cool night air doing little to soothe the feverish blaze that had settled upon his skin, his eyes flickered over to the windows. Curtains lining the windows hadn’t been pulled back, revealing the soft, warm glow of light from within the house. Spinning on his heels, he finally noticed that his dad’s car was parked along the street, indicating that he was home. 

Letting out a deep sigh, he didn’t think that he was quite ready for whatever lecture his dad had in store for him. His head was pounding, a well of pressure that felt like it was ready to explode at a moment’s notice. His recent argument with Scott didn’t help his already terrible mood either. Eyes flickering back towards the warm glow of light that was apparent from where he stood, he decided to just get it over with. Making his way to the front door, he was hardly surprised to find that it was unlocked either.

“Where were you?” Were the first three words to greet him when he pushed his way into his own home. Sighing, Stiles tipped his head back as he kicked the front door shut with the heel of his shoe.

“Dad, can we not do this right now? I’d just really like to go to bed.” Stiles took a step forward, his intention focused on walking past his dad to the steps just past him. However, it seemed his body had other plans in mind as he stumbled as the world beneath him tipped on its side sending him crashing into the wall beside him. His hand outstretched as he used it to brace himself against the wall. Black spots danced in the corners of his eyes, limiting his vision, his breathing sounded muffled even to his own ears. Like he was underwater where every little sound was distorted.

“Stiles?”

He blinked again, confusion gripping his brain in an endless fog as he turned his head toward the sound of his dad’s voice. Two separate images of his dad danced in the corner of his eyes, causing him to shake his head as he slurred out an incoherent sentence that sounded muffled even to his own ears. Attempting to take another step forward, Stiles frowned as his dad reached out, wrapped his hand around Stiles’ wrist in an attempt to steady him. The Sheriff stepped closer to his son, lifting his other hand to place the back of it against Stiles’ forehead. He jerked it back when his own warm skin came in contact with the feverish burn that gripped his son’s own. “Jesus Christ, son, you’re burning up.”

Frowning at his dad, Stiles turned his head in an attempt to peer into his face as his entire body went slack. His legs crumbled beneath him as the upper portion of his body tipped forward so that his face was pressed against his dad’s stomach. As the cool blackness encroached on the corners of his vision, all he could hear as he faded into the nothingness was the sound of his dad calling out his name.

 

The slow rhythmic beep of machines prodded at the edges of Stiles’ consciousness. Groaning, his eyes slowly opened to reveal a dim pool of light that illuminated the room alongside the constant beep of machines that pounded against his skull forcing him to grit his teeth. He glanced down at himself to find that he was covered by a thick hospital blanket that had been draped over his body. Snaking his arm out from underneath the blanket, he pulled it back to reveal a hospital gown in place of the clothes he’d been wearing when he’d come home. He frowned at that thought as he tried to recollect how he’d even ended up in the hospital in the first place. His frown only deepening further when his brain came up with nothing. Wiggling his left fingers as he examined the needle that had been placed into his hand that connected him to the I.V. drip on his left. Shadows flickered across his door, as he heard his dad and Melissa’s voices just a few feet down the hall. Letting his head loll to the side, he shut his eyes and pretended as if he was asleep, just as the door to the room opened and he heard a pregnant pause.

“It seems he’s still sleeping,” Melissa whispered as she slipped into the room, the Sheriff following just behind her. His hand rested on the frame of the door as he gently shut it in an effort to not wake his son.

“That’s good.” The Sheriff sounded tired as he crossed the room to be beside Stiles’ bed. Reaching out, he swept a stray lock of hair off of his son’s forehead, before pulling his hand away to grip Stiles’ left hand in his own. He squeezed it lightly as Melissa came over to his side and stared down at Stiles’ sleeping form. 

“They say he might have Encephalitis. The doctors aren’t sure yet, but they’re going to run more tests and keep him on antibiotics in the meantime.”

Frowning at her words, the Sheriff turned toward Melissa, sensing there was something that she was keeping back from him. Something that she was unwilling to tell him. “What aren’t you telling me, Melissa?”

Glancing down at a sleeping Stiles once more, she sighed. Turning her body slightly toward the Sheriff, a frown tugged at the edges of her lips as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Scott called me; said that Stiles was at Derek’s loft just a few hours ago. That Stiles called him because he claimed to have seen something there. When Scott showed up, Stiles wasn’t...behaving like himself.”

Brows pinching together, the Sheriff frowned at her words. “What do you mean?”

It only caused Melissa to sigh deeply as she glanced at Stiles out of the corner of her eyes. “Scott said that...he said that Stiles claimed there was something in Derek’s loft; that it bit him. But—” She shook her head. “—Scott didn’t see a single bite on Stiles’ arm. Noah, Scott’s worried about Stiles. I’m worried about him. We’re worried that there’s something else going on, something that—”she trailed off, shaking her head once more as the Sheriff reached out and placed a hand upon her shoulder.

“Something that’s what, Melissa?”

Squeezing her eyes shut for a few brief seconds, they snapped open as she uncrossed her arms and gestured toward Stiles. “Something that Stiles needs help with, Noah! There’s something going on with Stiles that can’t just be chalked up to Encephalitis. He needs help, Noah. Stiles needs help.”

There was a lump in Stiles’ throat as he grew uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation that he was overhearing. It hurt that Scott didn’t believe him, but now Melissa and his dad were skeptical that Stiles’ issues had less to do with the supernatural and were more psychological. The lump burned in his throat as he stirred in his bed, pressing the side of his face into his pillow so that hot tears that were prickling in the corner of his eyes could spill. He could hear silence falling over the room as he pressed a hand over his face and rubbed at his eyes as if he was only just waking up. Pulling his hand away from his face, he blinked rapidly a few times as Melissa and his dad’s forms came into view.

“Dad? Melissa?”

“Hey, Stiles,” Melissa called out gently as she moved closer to his bed, sitting on the edge as she reached out and gently rubbed his arm. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling fine. Just a little tired though. How’d I get here?” Smiling at his words, Melissa pulled her hand away from Stiles’ arm and reached up to brush a few locks of hair away from his forehead. 

“You passed out and your dad brought you here. Get some rest though. I’ll be back later to check up on you.”

Nodding at her words, he rolled onto his side as he felt the bed slightly dip as Melissa rose from it. Without a word, Stiles listened as she and his dad left. The door silently shutting behind them with no more than a hiss of air as his stomach twisted inside of him as he dreaded whatever was going to come next. As he lay in that hospital bed, tossing and turning as he fruitlessly tried to sleep, he grew frustrated that the comforts of having a well night’s rest weren’t coming to him. Instead, he lay on his back, staring up at the white paneled ceiling above him. He blinked once, then twice, as his eyes slowly started to shut together as frigid waves of sleep nestled over him. It felt like an out of body experience, where he was staring down at his own sleeping form as the hospital room filled rapidly with black, murky water that resembled something akin to tar. The water rose, coming up the bed, lapping at his exposed skin; rising and rising until the water was up to his ears and he was slowly being engulfed in it. It evaded his body, his mind, and soul. The water filling his lungs as laid motionless, drifting amongst the inky, blackness. Lungs burning, his mouth flew open as he attempted to scream. 

Then suddenly, it was like he was being grabbed by the back of his neck and being pulled out of the water. Jerking upwards, Stiles coughed, pressing a hand to his throat as droplets of sweat rolled down his bare arms. He stilled, his brows pinching together as his right hand dug into the cool, dark dirt beneath him. Lifting his head, he found himself glancing around at piles of dead leaves that covered a forest floor. The air was chilly, and there were thick trunks of trees surrounding him; many of them devoid of their leaves, but many were left with remnants that desperately clung to their branches. Frowning, he couldn’t help the uneasiness that burned in his stomach as he gained the sense that he wasn’t in the preserve. That he wasn’t even in Beacon Hills anymore.

“ _ Stiles.” _

Whipping his head around at the sound of his own name. He was greeted by nothing but air and a light fog that rolled through the trunks of the trees.

“Hello?” He called out hesitantly as he slowly rose to his feet. His own voice echoing back to him.

“ _ Stiles.” _

The voice sounded closer to him yet. Cupping his own hands around his mouth, he called out in response. “Is anyone there!?”

The only response he was given was yet again the sound of his own name. “ _ Stiles.” _ A frustrated smirk stretched across his face, as he pressed his hands to the side of his head, his fingers tangling in the locks of his hair. “This is all in your mind.” He whispered to himself. “This is all in your mind.”

_ “Stiles! _ ” The voice was louder now as he felt the air around him go colder than it had been mere seconds before. He could taste the coldness in the air as if he’d run outside in the middle of winter. There was a presence behind his back that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise in fear. Even as his own mind warned him not to turn around. To never turn around. That if he just ignored this problem he could hang on to the little sliver of normalcy that he had left.

It was like he was Pandora in the old Greek stories. The gods had given her a box to guard that contained all of the world’s sins and fears. But the longer Pandora had guarded it the more her curiosity grew until she could no longer open it and unleash the horrors that were contained inside. 

Well, Stiles was Pandora at this moment and turning around was the equivalent of that box. If he turned around, he felt he’d been burning the few normal things in his life that he left. And yet….he weighed everything that had happened so far. All the pain, the hallucinations, the fear he felt. His brain whispered to him, coaxed him, that if he just turned around and opened the box, he’d be set on a path that would give him the answers he sought.

“ _ Stiles _ .”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers gripping his hair a little bit more tightly as he whispered for the voice to shut up. 

“ _ Stiles!” _ It was a full-fledged scream now. It seeped its way through the cracks in his mind.  _ “Stiles!” _ His curiosity got the better of him….

….He threw the lid of the box wide fucking open. 

Eyes snapping open, he turned around and saw a young woman. A curtain of jet black hair fell down to her waist and obscured her features from his vision. A stench rolled off of her that reminded Stiles of the scent of winter with decay just beneath it.

A pale hand snaked out from her side, quicker than a snake, she reached out and wrapped her fingers around his wrist with a grip so strong that it was in complete opposition of her lithe figure. “ _ Stiles.” _ She repeated his name again like it was the only word she knew as she inched a little closer to him. Reaching up with her free hand, she pushed back a curtain of hair that obscured her face. But Stiles didn’t pay any attention to what her face looked like, instead, he paid attention to her pale lips that were chapped by the cold weather. Lips stretched into a wicked grin, they slowly parted, revealing a pitch, black space in her mouth where there should have been a tongue, teeth, and gums. 

Cold dread seeped its way into Stiles’ bones as he watched transfixed into the black confines of this woman’s mouth.  There was nothing but darkness...until something was born. Slowly a pair of eyelids separated within the interior of the darkness, revealing a beady, coal-black eye. There was another beside it, and then a beak, the same color as the woman’s hair forced itself out of her mouth; it parted and released a terrible sqwuak as a raven clawed its way out of her throat.

“Stiles!”

Stiles blinked in confusion as he stared down at his hands. Blinking again, he looked around him and found himself in a homely type of office that made well use of the space that accomplished the feat of tricking all who stepped in that they weren’t in a psychiatric facility, but instead were visiting a friend. There were potted ferns and even stranger looking plants that were placed upon the window sills that lined a single wall. His gaze traveled to the walls that held motivational posters and several diplomas that held neatly signed cursive embellishments of the woman whose office he was currently sitting in.

Marin Morrell.

“Stiles?” Morrell cocked her head to the side as she regarded Stiles pensively, her gaze following Stiles’ own as looked at the window that he’d been staring out of since the moment he’d sat in her chair. There was a dark, feathered raven perched upon the ledge of a window that spread its wings apart and sqwuaked annoyedly as if it didn’t enjoy being peeped at. It hopped a few times upon the ledge, before taking off into the air and disappearing out of their sights.

Almost as if a spell had been broken, Stiles blinked yet again. His hand rising up to rub at the dark circles beneath his eyes. “What—what were you saying?”

Her lips thinned out into a grim line as she studied him. Her eyes raking over every inch of him as if she had him pinned beneath a microscope. “How do you feel, Stiles?”

He shrugged his shoulders as he sunk a little bit more deeply, in the plush, leather couch of her office that faced her mahogany desk. “Fine, I guess?” Where his words should have come across as a statement, they left his mouth more like a question. Even to his own ears, he wasn’t certain of his own state of well being.

“How have you been sleeping lately? Your father was telling me that you haven’t been sleeping well.” She frowned, as she noticed that Stiles was gazing out the window, where the raven had been mere moments earlier. Her brows pinched together as she studied his face and felt a cold chill travel up her skin as he looked out the window with a gaze that seemed to view something that was beyond her own vision.

“Stiles?” His own name, caused Stiles to blink in confusion and turn his gaze back to Morrell again. “This only works if the two of us talk to each other, Stiles.”

He mumbled an apology underneath his breath as Morrell asked a few polite questions about Stiles’ course load this semester, about his classes, and lacrosse. No matter how many questions she posed, her eyes were narrowed as she observed his guarded behavior and their time together came to an end.

 

Hours later, the Sheriff was bent over the burner of a stove. He could hear the television from the living room playing reruns of the Golden Girls mixed with the soft sound of Stiles’ snores as he recovered from his fever that the doctors requested he stay home from school for. There was a forlorn smile on his face as his mind replayed the memory of them trudging through the door and of him informing Stiles that he’d be taking the day off of work so the two of them could have some bonding time. He couldn’t help the pang of guilt that stabbed itself into his heart as he’d watch Stiles’ eyes narrow in confusion at him having used up one of his vacation days after months of letting them collect dust as he’d preferred to spend time down at the station rather than at his own home.

So he found himself bent over the stove, a cast iron pan full of bacon sizzling as Stiles slept on the couch. Behind him, his phone vibrated as the soft chimes of his ringtone played. Setting down the spatula that he had in his hand, he quickly wiped his hands on the dish towel that he tossed down on the counter next to the stove and turned, his index finger sliding across the surface of his phone as he lifted it to his ear.

“Sheriff.” Morrell’s cool voice settled into his ear. He frowned at the sound of her voice, the woman always like a mask to him. He could never tell what she was thinking or what she planned to say from the way she made everything sound as if it personally had no interest to her. 

“Morrell, I’m hoping this call is about business.”

“It’s not.” She rebutted quickly. “You know what this call is about, you’re just rather...apprehensive about facing it.”

Frowning at her words, he fell silent, his skin crawling with a peculiar itch that he only ever got on the few times he interacted with her or her brother Deaton. Like they had a way of examining people down to their very cells and keeping what they learned, tucked away in a neat little box to be utilized at their own discretion. 

“Whatever is wrong with Stiles,” she continued, “is beyond anything that I can offer you help with.”

“Meaning? Is this related to something supernatural?”

“No,” she sighed, “Stiles’ problems aren’t related to the supernatural. They’re psychological. He may be suffering from PTSD or a combination of other mental illnesses, but it’s too early to say and I’m telling you this off the record and not as a therapist that saw your son as a favor. He needs more help than I can provide him with and I have a few associates downtown that owe me a couple of favors that I can put you in touch with.”

The Sheriff nodded, feeling the lump in his throat tightened as he mentally churned over Morrell’s words.  _ PTSD _ .  _ A combination of other mental illnesses _ . Sighing audibly through his nose, he leaned forward until his elbow was pressed against the counter and his forehead was resting in the palm of his hand.

“Sheriff?” Jolting out of his own thoughts, he hardly realized that he was still on the phone.

“Sorry, I spaced out for a bit. What were you saying?”

“I said, I’ll write Stiles a recommendation for a psychiatrist that I want him to at least have a single session with. If there’s nothing else I’ll be going now.”

“Wait!” The Sheriff chewed nervously on his bottom lip as he could hear Morrell pause on the other end of the line as if she’d been expecting this. “Could uh—could any of the symptoms Stiles has point to—” he paused, swallowing nervously around the lump in his throat. “—what his mom had?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. A few seconds passed by enough that the Sheriff was beginning to wonder if Morrell had hung up on him at some point in the call. But the silence was broken by a single, uncertain sigh. “You know I can’t make a prognosis based off those few things, much less having a single half-hour conversation with Stiles.” Her voice was soft as if she was delivering bad news to one of her patients, but he picked up on the thread of uncertainty that clung to her voice.

“Thanks.” The Sheriff mumbled as he felt his shoulders sag underneath all the emotional weight he was carrying upon them.

“Don’t worry about it,” Morrell replied back, there was a pause to her words as if she contemplated saying something more but decided against it. “I’ll come by the station tomorrow to give you the recommendation.”

He thanked her again and hung up the phone. Shoulders sagging even further, he tossed the phone back down onto the counter and cursed as he caught a whiff of the scent of burning bacon. Quickly moving over to the stove, he turned the burner off and sighed as he reached up and pinched at the bridge of his nose. Turning, he walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway, where he stopped and stared at a framed photo of him in his younger years. Claudia was right beside him, her face split into an intoxicating grin that he missed as the years went by. The photo was taken around Christmas at her parent’s home, her hand protectively resting against the swell of her stomach that had a saddened half-smile stretching across the sheriff’s lips.

“Claudia, if you were here. What would you have done?” He whispered to the photo of his wife, who simply stared back at him. Wordless and frozen in a snapshot of time that had long gone.

 

Stiles was staring out the car window as he watched buildings and trees blur together. His dad snuck glances at him every few seconds as he drove down streets and made turns on unfamiliar roads that Stiles had never traveled down. They were in his squad car, his dad had left early this morning as Stiles ate breakfast. “I’ll be back soon. Just have to swing by the station for an hour and then I’ll come back and I’ll take you out.”

“Where to?” Stiles brows had piqued in interest, even as his dad dodged the question and left the house before Stiles could pester him about it.

But being in the squad car like this made Stiles think of his childhood when his dad would get off work early and come to his elementary school. He would pick up Stiles and Scott, take them down to Blissful Creamery and get them both an ice cream.  _ “Just make sure to not tell your mom about this.” The Sheriff would crack a grin at his son, as he reached out to ruffle his hair. “It’s a secret between us.” _

Drawing in a single breath through his nose, Stiles ignored the pang of pain in his chest as he wondered how things had changed so drastically in his life since he was a kid. A kid who could share anything with his dad, but now here he was, having kept him in the dark for months about a world that just lurked around the edges of Beacon Hills; out in the open for anyone to see if they were observant enough about it.

But it seemed he wasn’t the only one keeping secrets from his dad... 

“No,” Stiles whispered sharply as his dad pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript, plain-bricked building. There was a sign poking out of a neatly manicured plot of grass that was surrounded by hydrangea bushes and in gilded letters read:  _ New Dawn Psychiatry _ . “I’m not going inside.” 

The Sheriff turned to face his son after he pulled into a parking space and let the engine of his car run. Taking in the gaunt look of his son’s face, the dark circles beneath his eyes, and Stiles’ slightly haggard appearance that gave him the look of someone who had never known the gentle embrace of sleep, he simply sighed. Pressing a hand against his face, he swept his thumb and index finger over his eyes until he came to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Stiles,” he pleaded, “just please go inside.”

Stiles shook his head, his lips flattening into a determined line. “I’m not going inside.” His words had a bite to them, a snap that made his dad narrow his eyes at him with a slightly taken aback look burning in his eyes at Stiles’ tone. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Keeping his lips clamped shut, the Sheriff doesn’t point out the lack of sleep Stiles had been getting the last few days—or rather, the countless sleepless nights that gripped Stiles in its clutches. The rare moments he did sleep where few and far between, and even there were littered with restless nights and nightmares that had Stiles screaming himself awake to the point that he’d come into Stiles’ bedroom. He’d hold him in his arms and rock him back and forth like he was a small child all over again as his son shook in his arms and whispered nonsensical things that he could never understand.

“Stiles,” the Sheriff sighed, the exasperation and weariness apparent in his voice. “Just please go in. Sit for the forty-five minute session and then we never have to come back here again.”

Staring at his dad, Stiles weighed his options in his head as he frowned glumly at him. Leaning his head against the window, he groaned as he let his eyes slip shut. 

This was going to be a nightmare.

 

Letting his fingers drum against the leather of the armchair he was sitting in. Stiles watched the hand of the metronome slowly tick by as he waited for the psychiatrist to appear. The receptionist had told him that the psychiatrist he would be seeing was on her lunch break, but that he could wait in her office if he’d like and she would inform her boss about him when she came back.

The office was unlike Morrell’s—where hers was homier, this one felt like it was unlived in. The shelves were stuffed with books that had no specks of dust upon them, the desk held very few personal effects or objects. There was very little plant life in the room, aside from a small bonsai tree that sat on a solitary small table that was pushed up against the wall that was surrounded by a window on either side. Tearing his eyes away from the metronome, he let his gaze travel around the room as he took in the powder blue walls and the cherry wood floors. The door to the office opened as Stiles turned his head to catch a glimpse of who was walking in. A rather young looking woman stepped into the office. Involuntarily shivering at the sight of her, Stiles brows pinched together as the cold feeling of deja vu settled into the pit of his stomach as glanced her over. Her skin was as pale as milk, but her eyes and her hair that was braided into a half-mermaid style were as black as coal.

His mouth was dry as she stepped into the room, her eyes slightly warming up and crinkling at the sight of him. But it did little to melt the frigid cold that seemed to seep into the surface of his skin the moment she came into the room or the creeping sense of familiarity that burrowed into his skin. Like he’d seen her somewhere on the streets of Beacon Hills before, or interacted with her on several occasions, but could put neither a memory of meeting her to her face. Absentmindedly rubbing at his arms, she cocked her head at him, a warm, friendly half-smile pulling at her lips. “Are you cold?” Her voice was as frigid as winter itself, but light like falling snow. He nodded at her, as she turned her back to him and went to the thermostat to turn the heat up. 

Turning around, she smoothed down the black material of her suit jacket that was placed over a forest green button up. She wore matching black suit pants and dark flats. A small pin resembling the shape of an evergreen tree was pinned to her lapel. She strode over to where Stiles was sitting and held out her hand for him to shake. “Stiles? I presume?”

“Yea, that’s me.” He reached out and shook her hand. It felt like shaking hands with a dead body.

Releasing her hand, she walked over to her desk and sat down as she opened a folder that Stiles hadn’t even realized had been there. “Admittedly I’m doing this as a favor for Marin. She and I go way back and I owe her a few favors.” Stiles narrowed his eyes at her as he tried to discern her age. She looked like she just graduated from college, but he got the sense that she was far older than her looks lead one to believe. 

“I didn’t realize I have a folder.” The corner of his lip was pulled up into a wary, half-smile as the psychiatrist lifted her head, placed a hand over her heart and let out a small laugh.

“This is just so I get to know you. Don’t worry there’s nothing bad in here.” She stared down at the folder again, her eyebrow cocking up at whatever information she had just gleaned.

“Your name...it’s quite—”

Chuckling nervously, Stiles rubbed at his arms again. “—Unusual?” He offered. “I prefer to go by Stiles anyway.” She nodded, plucking a pen from the holder right next to her, she scribbled down some notes into the folder directly. 

“I wouldn’t say it’s unusual,” she countered after a few seconds had passed. “Just a rather...archaic name for one’s child.” A smile stretched across her face, as she let out another peal of soft laughter. “Though I shouldn’t be saying that about your name when my surname is as uncommon here as it is in Poland.”

That had Stiles’ eyebrows raising. “You’re Polish?”

She nodded. “Yep. I’m as much as  Wroński as my parents before me.” She glanced down at his folder again. “But I can tell that you and I share something in common.”

Stiles shrugged his shoulders, feeling his cheeks warm up at her attention. “You probably know more about Polish culture than I do.”

She leaned back in her chair, a single brow raising slightly. “Why is that?”

He shrugged again. “I was never really taught about it. I ate a lot of  _ pączki _ as a kid.” He could almost recollect the scent of the warm dough frying as he sneaked a fresh one off of a plate as his mother wasn’t looking. The jam filled center burst on to his tongue, leaving behind a floral and citrus aftertaste from the rose hip jam that his mother would fill them with, from a jar that she bought from an international store nearby that stocked up on many of the Polish treats and snacks that she had grown up on as a child.

“You must miss eating those, now that you’re not a child anymore.” Shrugging yet again, he didn’t offer her a reply. Instead, she continued to speak. “So you prefer to go by Stiles. Why not your first name?”

“I could never pronounce it, just chose to went by my nickname instead.”

“A nickname that your family concocted for you? Or one that your mother did?”

He didn’t reply, his throat suddenly tightening up at the mention of his mother. His shoulders sagged as countless memories of her calling him “ _ my little mischief” _ washed over him. Wroński seemingly picked up on that as she scribbled down more notes into the folder that he couldn’t see. 

“It seems that any mention of your mother is a sore wound for you,” she commented, “where you close to her?”

“Very,” Stiles replied coolly.

Scribbling something down in her folder once more, she lifted her head and set her pen aside as she laced her fingers together. “Tell me, Stiles, do you ever dream about your mother?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, his mouth set down into a frown. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just constructing a psychological profile.” She smiled sweetly.

“Then, no. I don’t.”

“Then what do you dream of, Stiles?”

An icy cold feeling traveled up the length of his spine as his brain was swamped with faint, glimmers of the numerous nightmares he’d been having for weeks. Dark shadows moving in the night, in a forest filled with thick tree trunks that he knew didn’t exist in the preserve. The shadows seemed to dance with the flicker of a firelight that he could never find the source of. Sometimes his dreams were of the night he crashed his jeep as he rushed to save his dad from the Darach. Instead of finding himself in the driver’s side of the jeep, he would wake up standing in front of the Nemeton; blood dripping from his temple. He would stand there and as if in slow motion, would watch as a droplet of blood rolled off from his skin and onto the Nemeton. The trunk of the ancient tree soaking the blood into its rings as if it was lapping up the liquid like it was a sacrificial offering. His skin would prickle in his nightmares as his blood soaked into the tree; the preserve humming with a strange power. A raw energy that hadn’t been experienced in a long time that made the preserve seem....alive.

His nightmares would change, to a woman standing alone at the top of a crag, her back to him, but the crown of withered flowers in her jet black hair, stank with their decay. She wore a plain white skirt, the hem coming down to her bare feet. A plain white tunic that adorned her upper torso, a belt woven from hemp was wrapped around her waist. Her hair was flowing behind her as she turned slightly and burst into a flow of crows that swarmed around him. Forming a thick, dark miasma that drove him to his knees as he could see nothing through it. Instead of his knees meeting the cold, compacted earth beneath him, his knee would touch the slippery surface of dew soaked leaves. He would find himself standing before the Nemeton again, his hands slick with blood as dark clouds rolled across the sky. The clouds revealed the light of a full moon, that came down in slivers and illuminated the clearing Stiles found himself in. A gasp left his lips as his eyes swept over the clearing, his friends' bodies were positioned around the trunk of the Nemeton. Their faces pointed toward the sky to expose the deep cuts across their throats. 

The sound of heavy breathing filled his own ears as his eyes fell on the body in front of him, bile rising in his chest as the blood-soaked knife he hadn’t realized he’d been gripping in his right hand as he stared into Derek’s lifeless eyes. 

“Stiles?”

Snapping himself out of his own thoughts, Stiles found himself once more in Wroński’s office. His fingers were gripping the armrests of the leather chair tightly, making his knuckles bone-white from the force of it. Wroński’s brows were pinched together in worry, her mouth fixed into a frown. “Sorry,” he mumbled as he averted his gaze elsewhere into the room as he heard her pick up her pen and scratch some notes against a sheet of paper. 

“It’s fine.” She said after quite some time. “It seems our forty-five minutes are up anyway.” Both of them rose from their seats as she showed him out into the waiting room, his dad was tucked into a chair, a Cosmopolitan magazine splayed across his lap. “Mr. Stilinski, could I talk to you for a moment?” A tooth exposing grin stretched across her face as she motioned for Stiles to take a seat in the waiting room as the Sheriff got up from his seat, crossed the room and was ushered into her office.

Wroński closed the door behind him and offered the Sheriff the seat in front of her desk. He declined and instead chose to stand.

“What’s wrong with my son?”

She wrinkled her nose at the Sheriff’s blunt and rather forward question. Her lips were firmly pressed together as she walked over to her desk, sat down in her seat, and stared at the open folder in front of her. “Mr. Stilinski, I can’t tell you what’s wrong with your son, but I can tell you what I’ve observed. In our session, Stiles displayed apathy,” She held up her hand, curling her fingers toward her palm with each symptom she listed off. “Hyperactive behavior that was exhibited in the slight aggression, agitation, and frustration that I observed and the emotional blunting that he displayed throughout our conversation.”

The Sheriff shook his head, his mouth pinched into a tight frown that highlighted the wrinkles upon his face. “What does that mean? Is Stiles….displaying any symptoms that my wife had?” He swallowed tightly. “Before she died, um, the doctor’s diagnosed her with Frontotemporal dementia.”

“Oh,” she murmured softly, sympathy burned in her eyes. “It’s too early to say. A lot of psychological and behavioral symptoms can lead to multiple and different diagnoses. Stiles could have what his mother had...or he could be totally fine and simply have a mental or psychological illness that can be treated and managed. Or he could just simply need a professional outlet to talk to. It’s simply something that would need more sessions before I feel comfortable making a prognosis about Stiles’ mental or psychological state.”

Nodding wryly, she watched as the Sheriff’s Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his throat. “And how much would these session’s cost?”

Smiling nonsensically, she waved a hand at her closed office door. “If you talk to my secretary, she can set you up on a payment plan.”

He nodded as she rose to let him out of her office. As she opened the door and watched the Sheriff’s retreating back, she spied Stiles staring up at her picture on the wall. He turned, his eyes locking with hers as she slowly shut the door to her office as she watched the Sheriff clap a hand against his son’s back and mention something about stopping home on the way back to get a carton of cheese covered curly fries. Door softly clicking closed, she turned, pulling in a deep breath through her nose as she pressed her back against the wood of it. Shuddering in ecstasy, she pulled her lower lip into her mouth as her teeth sunk into the plump flesh. 

Drawing in another breath, she shuddered as the scent of pine needles, citrus, and the warm tones of vanilla filled her lungs. Just underneath it all, mingled with the delicious scents that made her mouth water. As if a plate of warm, freshly fried  _ pączki’s  _ had been placed before her; the sharp bitter scents of hesitation, anxiety, and fear layered beneath it all. It was a delicious combination that made her shudder; a combination of scents that she hadn’t smelt in a very  _ long _ time. It was a combination that smelt like an unbaked creme brulee; a complex dessert that needed time and age in order to come into perfection. Just like a fine wine, she only had to wait for it to ripen. 

But that didn’t mean, she couldn’t prod it along.

Walking over to her desk, she stared down at the file folder again. A tiny snapshot of Stiles’ smiling face stared up at her from a sheet of paper that she’d gotten from his stay in Eichen House. She smirked at it, as she pulled a drawer of her desk open and pulled out a simple, black cloth bag. A gold, cord was wrapped around it keeping it shut. Unwinding it, she reached inside and pulled out a deck of cards. She hadn’t touched them in years, having kept them safely tucked away until she felt there was a right moment to pull them out again.

Now that time had come, she felt. Closing her eyes, she shuffled the cards, as she let her mind aimlessly roam, before letting her eyes open as she plucked a single card from the top of the deck. The back of the cards were black, with gold trim running around the edges, at the top and bottom of the card were black circles representing the new moon. In the middle rested the full moon, with different phases of it extending between the full moon and its newer counterparts. She flipped the card over, exposing its face to her vision. 

The card showed a young black woman, her hair free and flowing, yet framing her face. She wore a cloak that had a red cord tied into an infinity symbol that held the fabric together. She was surrounded by an array of blooming white lilies, daffodils, and roses. In her left hand, she held a pair of scales, in the right plate rested a deer’s skull. In the other was a lotus flower. Above the woman’s head, was a single Roman numeral representing the number one. Underneath all of it, at the bottom of the card, printed in neat, blocky letters were the words:  _ The Magician _ .

She smiled at it as she tilted her head back and drew in a lungful of that slowly fading scent. This would be good, she decided. This would be  _ really _ good.


End file.
